CHAPTER LXIV
A ROYAL CAPTIVE
It was noon, and the battle was virtually over; and, albeit the English were already as secure of victory as if every enemy had lain dead on the field, on one spot, hard by a little hillock, a fierce struggle was still maintained. It is true that, after rescuing the Prince of Wales from sudden peril, the Earl of Warwick had driven the French before him with such force that, as I have said, most of them never paused in their flight till they reached the gates of Poictiers. Nevertheless, John of Valois fought on, indulging in vague hopes and forming desperate resolutions. But fate was decidedly against him; and his nobles and knights, bravely as they contended, could do nothing to make their position less desperate than it already was. In attempting to break through the crowd and join their sovereign, the Counts of Tankerville, Ponthieu, and Eu were made prisoners. By the hand of Lord Cobham perished the Count of Dammartin; down, as his sword again descended, fell Geoffrey de Chargny, who had fought gallantly all day, with the standard of France in his hand; and, through the gaps which were thus made in the French army, rushed the English and Gascons in such numbers that they intermingled with their foes, and outnumbered them in the proportion of five to one. It was utterly impossible for John, bold and strong as he was, to hold out longer under such circumstances, and his danger was great. However, the eagerness to take him prisoner was excessive among those who knew him; and, while he was pulled about from one to another without the least respect for his royal pretensions, some of those who were near shouted loudly —
"Surrender yourself, surrender yourself, or you are a dead man!"
Fortunately for John, there was among the English a young knight of St. Omer, who bore the name of Denis de Morbeque, and who had, five years earlier, been banished from France for killing a man in a fray; and fortunately for himself this knight was at hand. Recognising John, and anxious to save him, Sir Denis, exerting all his strength, pushed rapidly through the crowd.
"Sire, sire," said he in good French, "surrender yourself; it is your only chance."
"But to whom shall I surrender myself?" said John, turning round. "Where is my cousin, the Prince of Wales? If I could see him I would speak to him."
"Sire," replied Sir Denis, "the prince is not near; but surrender to me, and I will lead you to his presence."
"Who are you?" asked John with interest.
"Sire," answered the knight, "I am Denis de Morbeque, a knight of Artois; but I serve the King of England, because I have forfeited all I possessed in France, and no longer consider myself as belonging to the kingdom."
"Well, sir knight," said John, giving Sir Denis the glove from his right hand, "I surrender to you. Conduct me to the prince."
But this proved no easy matter, for several cried, "I have taken him," and there was much pushing and thronging about the spot; and both John and his young son Philip, who clung resolutely to his father's side, were unable to free themselves from the numbers who claimed them as prisoners.
In fact, the dispute every moment became louder and fiercer, and ever and anon threatened the most disagreeable consequences; for both English and Gascons were bawling at the top of their voices, and it appeared likely enough that they would ultimately proceed from words to blows.
"He has surrendered to me," shouted one.
"It is I who have got him," cried a second.
"No, no!" exclaimed others; "we have him."
And as each put in his claim, he attempted to make it good in such a fashion that John found his situation the very reverse of pleasant.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said he, as his patience wore out, "I pray you cease this riot, and conduct me and my son in a courteous manner to the Prince of Wales. You shall all be rewarded. I am so great a lord that I can make you all sufficiently rich."
At these words, which every one heard, the crowd was in some degree appeased; but disputes were again breaking out, and John's position was becoming every moment less agreeable, when suddenly Lord Cobham and the Earl of Warwick, who, while riding over the field, had observed the tumult, spurred up to the place.
"What is the matter?" asked they.
"It is the King of France, who has been made prisoner," was the reply; and immediately more than a dozen knights and squires stepped forward, each claiming the royal captive as his own.
"Gentlemen," said Warwick, bending his brow and raising his voice menacingly, "this behaviour is most unseemly; and, in the name of the Prince of Wales, I command you all to keep your distance, and not to approach unless desired to do so."
And, as the crowd fell back, Warwick and Cobham dismounted, and, advancing to the prisoner, conducted him quietly to the red pavilion in which the prince was resting from the fatigues of the day.
When the two earls escorted their captive and his son into the pavilion, the Prince of Wales was conversing with his knights on the events of the day. On becoming aware of John's presence, however, he rose and made a very low obeisance, as has been related, and, ordering wine and spices to be brought, presented them to the captive with his own hand, and endeavoured to minister what comfort he could.
"In my opinion," said he, "you ought to be glad that this battle, albeit it has not ended as you desired, has redounded so much to your fame; for you have, this day, had an opportunity of acquiring a high renown for prowess, and have in the field far surpassed all the best knights of whom the chivalry of France can boast."
At these words, John, whose violence seemed to have died out of him, smiled as if in sad reproof; but his young son Philip, who inherited this violence in a high degree, glared on his father's conqueror with the savage ferocity of a young tiger.
CHAPTER LXV
HOW I RESCUED MY WORST ENEMY
At the time when John of Valois, fighting on foot, with his battle-axe in his hand, rallied his broken ranks, and made that sudden and unexpected attack on the Prince of Wales which, for a moment, threatened to change the fortune of the field, I, Arthur Winram, was separated from the comrades in arms with whom I had charged, and whirled to where the English and French were confused, intermingled, and dealing blows without being well aware whether they were aimed at friends or foes. At this crisis I found myself engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with Sir John de Saintré; and albeit he was esteemed the most accomplished knight in France, I contrived not only to return blow for blow, but to press him so hard that he was not sorry when we were separated by the crowd. Much to my disappointment, I could not take him prisoner, and, falling into other hands, however, he was well treated; but his wounds and bruises ruined his health, and he never recovered from the effects of the combat.
By that time the Earl of Warwick had come to the relief of the prince, and the French, scattered by the charge, were flying in crowds towards Poictiers; but the citizens of Poictiers shut their gates, and would suffer no one to enter; and a fearful struggle took place on the causeway, where the French were so hard pressed that they surrendered without hesitation.
One party, however, who seemed to have no inclination to yield, were contending desperately with an Englishman of rank, whose violent temper had placed him in great jeopardy. Indeed, he was not only sore beset, but beaten from his horse, and already with one knee on the ground. Nor could there be any mistake as to who he was. I had no doubts on that point. I knew at once, by his splendid armour, by his lion crest, and by the armorial bearings on his surcoat, that he was Roger, Lord De Ov; and, regarding him at that moment simply as an Englishman in peril of dying under the weapons of the enemies of his country, I shouted, "St. George! St. George!" and spurred in to the rescue. As I not only cleared a space around me by the vehemence of my charge, but sent the assailants, with one exception, flying back, my sword descended on a squire of prodigious strength, with such effect that he measured his length on the ground.
"Yield thee, Sir Squire!" said I, leaping from my steed.
"What is your name, and who are you?" asked he somewhat fiercely.
"My name is Arthur Winram, and I am a squire of England," I answered.
"I surrender to you," said the squire: and, as he rose, I recognised Eustace the Strong, whom I had seen at the Castle of Mount Moreville, and who had performed the feat of carrying the ass, with its panniers full of billets, into the hall, and flinging it on the dogs of the hearth.
"In truth, Eustace," said I, after we exchanged greeting, "it is strange that you should be my prisoner, and still stranger that I should have taken you while rescuing my worst enemy."
Meanwhile Lord De Ov had recovered his feet, and as I turned round, he was regarding me with a scowl of hate.
"Varlet!" said he, "deem not that I hold myself in the least measure grateful to you; for I swear by my father's soul that I would rather have died ten deaths than owed life to your interference."
"My lord," replied I, as I prepared to mount my horse and conduct my prisoner to a place of safety, "you owe no gratitude to me for saving your life, for I can easily understand how miserable the life of such as you are must be, with kindred blood shed by your father on your hands, and on your conscience the crime of having robbed the widow and disinherited the orphan. Come, my lord, you see I am better informed as to the state of your mind than you supposed."
"Dog!" exclaimed he, as furious with rage, he drew his sword, "draw, and let us fight it out! I can no longer brook the sight of you, or tread the same earth, or breathe the same air."
But I folded my arms on my breast, and gazed at him with a calm scorn before which his eye fell and the point of his sword dropped.
"Nevertheless, Lord Roger De Ov," said I, "such penance you must continue to do for the sins of your father and your own until it is my good pleasure to relieve you. The time is not yet come; but it will some day; and then may God have mercy on your soul, proud lord, for your body will be mine!"
And, leaving him standing as if transfixed to the ground, I sprang upon my steed, and rode away with Eustace the Strong towards the spot where the prince had placed his banner on a bush and caused his squires to pitch his red pavilion.
CHAPTER LXVI
THE SCOTS AT POICTIERS
I have mentioned, in an earlier part of my narrative, that, when John of Valois was on his way from Paris to Poictiers to intercept the Prince of Wales, some Scottish nobles and knights, including Lord Douglas, Sir Archibald Douglas, and Sir William Ramsay, who had assumed the Cross and were under a vow to repair to the Holy Land, so far forgot the oaths they had taken as to come and offer their swords to aid the cause of France; and I have said that they were gladly welcomed by their ancient allies. Moreover, they were treated with high distinction, and, on the day of battle, Lord Douglas and the Scots were assigned an honourable post in that battalion of the French army which John of Valois commanded in person, and in the conflict they fought bravely. But, when defeat stared the French in the face, Lord Douglas, who had by no means anticipated such a close to an enterprise in favour of which the odds were so great, and into which he had thrown his energies, became excessively alarmed, and nervously eager to escape.
"By St. Bride!" said he, "I dread so much falling into the hands of the English, that, rather than become their prisoner, I should elect to die at once."
Accordingly, Lord Douglas, when he saw that the engagement must end in the discomfiture of the French, lost no time in attempting to save himself by flight, and, with many of his companions, succeeded in escaping. But some of his friends had no such good fortune. Both Sir Archibald Douglas and Sir William Ramsay were taken prisoners; and the former being in magnificent armour, was naturally supposed by his captors to be some great lord who could pay an immense ransom.
Nothing, indeed, but the extraordinary presence of mind which was displayed by his comrade in captivity could have saved Sir Archibald Douglas from the inconvenience of enduring a long imprisonment, or paying a large ransom.
But in this wise did Ramsay contrive to set his companion in arms at liberty.
It was several hours after the battle had been won and the victory secured, and the English were about to disencumber Archibald Douglas of his sumptuous armour, when Ramsay, stepping suddenly forward, eyed his fellow-prisoner with a look of fierce indignation, and, pretending to be in a violent rage, seized him by the collar.
"You impudent rapscallion!" said he, affecting to treat Douglas as a servant, "how comes it, in the name of the fiend, that you are thus decked out in your master's armour?"
Douglas, perceiving the scheme at a glance, did not answer, but looked the picture of convicted imposture and conscious guilt.
"Come hither, knave, and pull off my boots," continued Ramsay, determined to lose no time in executing the project so well conceived.
Nor did Douglas fail to play his part skilfully. In fact, perceiving that his escape was becoming almost a matter of certainty, he approached as if trembling, and, kneeling down, pulled off one of the boots; and, while he was busy with the other, Ramsay, seizing that which was on the ground, beat him soundly.
"How is this?" asked the English who were present; "surely the person whom you have just beaten is a lord of high rank?"
"What!" cried Ramsay with the utmost scorn, "do you call him a lord? He is a scullion and a base knave, and I warrant he has rifled his master's corpse. Go, you villain, to the field, search for the body of my cousin, your master, and when you have found it return hither, that I may give him decent burial."
"But his ransom?" said the English.
"Well," answered Ramsay, "I will pay the sum of forty shillings, which is more than he is worth – body, bones, and all."
Not entertaining the slightest suspicion of the trick that was being played at their expense, the English accepted the ransom that was offered, and Ramsay, having once more soundly buffeted his comrade, sent him about his business.
"Get you gone, sirrah!" cried he, pushing him roughly away; and then whispered, "Fly!"
Douglas did not require a second hint.
Now it happened that Eustace the Strong had been quartered in the same place as the Scots; and, knowing well who they were, he was greatly diverted with the scene that was enacted before his eyes; and, when I visited him somewhat later, he talked merrily on the subject.
"What?" asked I; "mean you that the Scot has escaped without paying his ransom?"
"In truth," replied Eustace, "he has escaped, but his ransom has been paid for him, and it amounted to forty shillings; and, certes, Sir Squire, if you would name as moderate a ransom for me, I should not long continue your prisoner; for I have a wife at home who is an Englishwoman, and I would not that she fancied her countrymen had cut me into mincemeat."
"On my faith, Eustace," said I, "I cannot do you the injustice of rating you too low; but I will, at sunrise, name such a ransom as you can easily pay without hurting your fortune, and you can have your liberty to-morrow if you promise to pay the amount to me before Christmas, at Bordeaux."
"Thanks for your courtesy," replied Eustace gladly; "and, trust me, I will not fail to requite it."
"And now," said I, "if I could only reclaim the Scottish bird that has flown!"
"Archibald Douglas is too knowing a bird to let you put salt on his tail, under the circumstances," answered Eustace; "as well try to catch a wandering star."
CHAPTER LXVII
THE VICTORS AND THE VANQUISHED
It was to recall his people from the pursuit that the Prince of Wales set his banner on a bush, and ordered to "sound trumpets to the return." Nevertheless, it was not till after vespers that the chase was at an end, and that the English returned to their camp.
Ere this, however, the result of the conflict, so far as the French were concerned, was accurately known, and it was bruited about that, while not fewer than six thousand men of all sorts were left dead on the field, seventeen counts and a multitude of barons, knights, and squires were prisoners, with John of Valois and Philip his son. Indeed, when the English collected, they found they had twice as many prisoners as themselves. A very few persons of distinction among the English were missing. One of these was Roger, Lord De Ov.
Day drew to a close; the lights began to twinkle in the city of Poictiers; evening fell over the plains between Beauvoir and Mapertuis; and where lately the battle had raged with such vehemence all was now silent; and, while Ramsay and Douglas were deluding their captors, the Prince of Wales gave a supper in his pavilion to John of Valois and many of the French nobles, and knights, and squires who had been taken. Nor was there now any lack of good cheer among the English, most of whom had not tasted bread for three long days; for the French had brought with them plenty of provisions, not even neglecting to provide themselves with wine to celebrate the victory which they were not destined to gain.
Nor was it merely provisions which fell into the hands of the English. In fact, the French had come to Poictiers not only magnificently arrayed, but magnificently furnished with articles of luxury. Great and of high value was the spoil, including rich jewels, gold and silver plate, and trunks stuffed full of furred mantles, and belts weighty from their gold and silver. If it had not been known that the French came with a certainty of conquering, it might have been supposed that they had brought their wealth with them to bribe their victors to clemency.
When the hour of supper arrived the feast was spread, and the tables were covered with the viands that formed part of the spoil. Every preparation having been made, the prince conducted John of Valois and his son to the pavilion; and, having seated them at an elevated table, at which also were placed the Count of Tankerville and the Count of Ponthieu, he caused the French nobles, and knights, and squires who were captives to range themselves at the other tables; and, this done, he himself insisted on serving John with his own hand, and resisted all intreaties to sit down.
"No," said he, in the spirit of that chivalry of which he was the most renowned representative; "I do not deem myself worthy of such an honour; nor does it appertain to me to seat myself at the table of so great a prince or so valiant a champion as you have, by your actions, proved yourself this day."
"By Our Lady!" said the French knights admiringly, "it will, in truth, be said of the prince as has been said of his father, that he is a most noble gentleman who knows how to honour his enemies as well as his friends."
And the English, who had witnessed his interview with James, Lord Audley, highly applauded the sentiment.
But still John of Valois looked sad and disconsolate, and even the good wine which he himself had brought, with an idea of quaffing it under very different circumstances, failed to elevate his mood; and the prince, sympathising with his captive's melancholy, endeavoured to administer comfort.
"Sire," said he, "make good cheer, and let not your meal be the less hearty because God Almighty has not gratified your wishes as to the event of the day; for it has frequently been the fate of the most famous warriors to taste defeat as well as victory. Wherefore be not cast down, nor give way to despondence, seeing that my lord and father is a prince of noble and generous soul, and will show you every honour and friendship in his power, and will arrange your ransom reasonably, and on such terms that you will always henceforth remain friends."
John of Valois bowed courteously, but he did not utter a word; and he looked the picture of woe, for his intense pride had been wounded to the quick.
"Moreover," added the prince, still eager to console, "I do not speak to flatter you, but simply speak the truth, when I say that, of all the warriors of France, you have this day given your adversaries most to do, and won the highest renown; and all those on our side who have observed the actions of each party unanimously allow this to be your due, and, in reflecting on the deeds of arms wrought this day, they award you the prize and garland."
As the Prince of Wales concluded, there were murmurs of praise from every one present; and the French knights failed not to do justice to the chivalry of their youthful conqueror.